


the smallest of gestures

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cabin Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode 159, Sickfic, the boys are soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Martin's feeling a little under the weather, but that's okay. He can handle it by himself.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 45
Kudos: 434





	the smallest of gestures

**Author's Note:**

> For [@hello-archivist.](https://hello-archivist.tumblr.com/)

_ "Let me help." _

_ A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. _

_ He'll recommend those three words even over "I love you". _

_ -James T. Kirk _

It started as a tickle at the back of his throat, and then a small headache. Martin wasn’t worried about it, though. After all, he hadn’t slept very well last night. Bad dream. Not to mention all the dust in this old cabin.

Really, it would be more surprising if he  _ didn’t  _ feel a little unwell.

All he had to do was occasionally clear his throat and drink a glass of water that morning instead of coffee, and then he’d be fine. He’d probably forget about it by lunchtime.

Lunch came and went, though, and the tickle had graduated to a cough. When a particularly overzealous fit gripped him, he coughed wetly into the crook of his elbow, his chest flaring with pain. The room swayed.

Jon looked up from his book, a single brow raised, but Martin waved him away. Oh, just went a bit crazy with the pepper, is all. Nothing to worry about, darling.

Blushing at ‘darling’, Jon said he thought that they had agreed strictly on either  _ love  _ or  _ dear _ , and seemed to drop the previous matter entirely, which was good. Jon would worry and agonize over every little thing if Martin let him and, really, it wasn’t an issue. Just a little cough. Martin was sure it’d cleared up by dinnertime.

But when dinner rolled around, an aching pain had crawled behind his eyelids and blanketed his head with a sleepy heat. It sunk through his blood until even his bones were tired, his hands weak as he portioned up their microwave lasagne.

Over on the couch, Jon took the plate Martin handed him, making no effort to hide his blazing concern.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Martin sliced off a corner of his own piece, cooling it with a breath and taking a bite. It was still too hot, and he struggled to chew. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you look a little …"

“It’s just a headache. I’ll take a Tylenol before bed.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t feeling well, right?”

“Of course, Jon, but it’s fine.” He scooped up the remote. “Ready for some EastEnders?”

Jon still didn’t look convinced, but obediently turned to the TV, anyway. When they finished their meals, Martin came to the decision that it was best if he didn't curl into Jon’s side the way he usually would. Just in case.

When Martin woke up the next morning, he congratulated himself for being so prescient. His hair was damp with sweat and his stomach swirled in slow, methodical circles, like he was rocking on a boat.

He rolled around, but the other side of the bed was empty, and a quick pat revealed it to be robbed of any comforting warmth. Of course. Jon liked to get up early these days, get a few statements out of the way.

It’s for the best he had left. After all, Martin was likely contagious.

In the toilet, he stuck the thermometer under his tongue and, when it beeped, he glanced at the readout and winced.

38.7.

Oh, Martin was in for it now. He was going to have to quarantine himself. It was probably a good idea to change out the sheets, too. He needed to reduce the risk of spreading it to Jon as much as he could.

Arms full of the bundled sheets, he was halfway towards the laundry room when the front door opened, and Jon came back inside. Their eyes caught and Jon stopped, surprised.

Martin sighed.

“I’m sick.”

“I  _ knew  _ it,” Jon said, pointing at him with a victorious grin. Martin raised a brow and Jon blinked, returning his hand to his side. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that."

Martin rolled his eyes. What was he going to do with this man?

A self-deprecating smile curled Jon's lips, likely entirely aware of Martin's train of thought. Then, he reached out his arms. "Here, let me—”

But Martin held the sheets away.

“I’ve got it,” he said, continuing his way towards the back of the house. “And don't worry, I’ve already put on new ones. I think I’m going to stay in the spare bedroom, in the meantime. That way you won’t catch it, too.”

Jon hesitated, before slowly lowering his arms. “I don’t mind moving to the other room.”

“Relax, Jon. This’ll blow over in a few days.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Feel free to finish off that fruit salad. I think I’m going to go without this morning. Not sure it’ll stay down.”

“O-oh, um, thank you.”

Jon was frowning, and he was smoothing down the sleeve of his arm. Must have been a nasty set of statements if Jon was looking this out of sorts. Martin put it out of his mind, closing the laundry room door with the ball of his foot.

The spare bedroom wasn’t as nice as the master bedroom (the mattress was harder, and the small window meant little natural light) but it was suitable enough as a quarantine zone.

He brought a book with him for entertainment.  _ Evolution of Syntax in Shakespearean Theatre 1800s-1900s.  _ It was a little dry so far, but Jon had insisted it was good. Martin was beginning to think, however, that their tastes in books may have run a little counter to each other.

Well, Martin was bed bound, anyway, and Jon  _ had  _ finished Martin’s book about a coming of age queer youth stuck in a rural Texan town, so now was as good a time as any to complete his end of the bargain.

He flipped open to the first page.

_ Throughout this period, the bereavement of the more stringent cadence of the earlier performances and the shifting pronunciation of certain English words lead to a transformation of the Shakespearian text which caused it to lose some of its pristine sonic elements and thus— _

Martin forced his eyelids open with a snap.

Good grief.

_ Where _ did Jon get the energy?

He had just finished the first chapter, all the while continuing to fight his drifting eyelids, when a tapping on the door roused him.

Oh, thank God.

“Come in,” he said, snapping the book shut.

Jon entered, hovering in the doorway with a timid smile. He held out a glass of water.

“Brought you something.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Jon rounded the bed and Martin accepted the glass, placing it on the end table. “You don’t need to worry about bringing me stuff, though.”

“I don’t mind,” Jon said, eyeing the glass, before his eyes returned to Martin. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. A little nauseous, but not too terrible, all things considered.”

“That’s good. I mean,” he frowned, “no, it’s  _ not  _ good, but I’m glad it isn’t worse.”

Oh, Martin could watch this man fumble with his words all day. He smiled. “I knew what you meant.”

Jon returned the smile, tremulous and soft. With one hesitant hand, he brushed his fingertips over the blanket, passing just over Martin’s knee.

“You’ll let me know if you need anything, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Martin stretched, hands high over his head, before he wiggled further down underneath the covers.

“I actually think I might settle down for a nap.” That book had certainly put him in the mood for one, not that he’d tell Jon that. “Make sure the TV isn’t too loud, okay?”

“Of course.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon leaned down. Martin realised what he was angling for and held up his hand before chapped lips could meet his forehead.

“You’re just going to get sick too, dummy.”

“Oh.” Jon pulled back. “Right.” He scratched the side of his head, glancing around the room, as if he were making sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, before turning towards the door.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Martin hummed, pulling the sheets tighter around himself.

A moment later, the door clicked shut.

By the time Martin stirred, the sun high in the sky, some of his appetite had returned, although it was a slight thing. He should get some food in him before he became so nauseously hungry that he couldn’t even eat.

He kicked off the sheets and stood, only to have to lean his hip against the bed to keep from sliding right onto the floor. Dull pain dappled the space just behind his eyes.

Oh, piss off, already.

After he composed himself, he ambled down the hallway, pressing one hand against the wall for balance. Jon was reading on the couch, but when he saw Martin, he shot up, and Martin held up his hands, startled by the sudden movement.

“Relax, I’m just going to heat up a can of soup.”

“Let me—”

“It’s fine, Jon, I’m already up. Go back to your book.”

Jon didn't move forward, but he didn't return to his book, either, hovering about awkwardly. Martin quickly made his way into the kitchen, shuffling through the pantry. Oh, hell. Were they really out?

“What are you looking for?”

Martin gasped, hand flying to his chest. Jon had crept into the kitchen behind him without so much as a peep. Bloody man was going to give him a heart attack one day.

“Oh, um, just the clam chowder. I thought we had some left."

“I believe we had the last of it on Monday."

Martin sighed, letting himself feel disappointed. Like a bloodhound picking up a scent, Jon surged forward.

"I can run to the mart to pick some up for you, though.”

“We have plenty of other things to eat.” To make his point, Martin grabbed a can of chicken noodle.

“I don’t mind—”

“Don't be silly, it’s like an hour round trip. Besides, you hate grocery shopping.”

“So what? You—”

“Whoops, already opened it,” said Martin, peeling back the lid of the can in one sharp jerk. “Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. Shame to let it go to waste, right?”

He said it with a chuckle, but the downwards twist of Jon’s mouth didn’t go away, and the sound puttered out. Martin traced the lip of the can with his thumb, feeling strangely guilty. He turned, eyeing the pot, but then Jon reached for the can.

“I can at least heat it up—”

“Jon,  _ seriously _ , I can handle it,” Martin said, holding the can at arm's length. “Go on, shoo. You’ve probably already been around me for too long. I mean it. Off you go.”

Jon let himself be bullied out of the kitchen and, finally free of distraction, Martin reached for the pot.

He really wished Jon knew how to take the hint, sometimes.

Surprisingly, he managed to down at least half of his soup. With his newfound energy, he even got through a quarter of that terrible, terrible book. Who said just because he was sick meant that he couldn’t be productive?

Well, he supposed he had plenty of practice, after all. It had seemed silly to take the day off because you had a bit of a sniffle when your invalid mother couldn’t even get out of bed on her own. Perhaps he was just giving himself too much credit.

Not long after lunch, after he had well and truly given up on the book and was settling in for another nap, Jon popped his head into the room.

“I’m going for a walk. Call me if you need anything.”

He ducked out again just as quickly before Martin could even process what he'd said, much less formulate a response. He heard a door close a moment later.

Well. Okay, then.

When Martin was halfway to falling asleep again, he roused at the sound of the front door gently clicking shut. He glanced at the clock. 4:28.

Jon must have been having a whale of a time to have disappeared for so long.

Then, he heard crinkling paper and his eyes flew open, before narrowing. Curiosity getting the better of him, he struggled out of bed, catching Jon just as he placed a large brown paper bag on the living room table.

“What the hell is all that?”

Jon whirled around, moving between Martin and the bag.

“You were supposed to be napping.”

“Well, I was, but then you went and started making a ruckus." He approached the mysterious bag. "What’s all this then?”

Jon sighed, moving aside to reveal what was now clearly a bag full of groceries. “Went to the mart.” Reaching inside, he plucked out a can of New England clam chowder. “Now you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

Martin’s heart squeezed. He  _ knew _ he shouldn’t have complained about it. Now Jon had to waste an hour of his day for something so unimportant.

Still ...

“Thank you,” he said, taking the can and holding it to his chest. “That was very sweet of you.”

Jon beamed, and Martin reached for the rest of the bag.

“Well, I can put it away, at least—”

“ _ No _ ,” Jon said, dragging the bag out of reach. “I’ll see to it. Go and get some rest. Besides,” a dull redness crept onto his face, “there are some purchases I’m beginning to see were probably not entirely necessary, and I'd rather not be exposed to your disappointment just yet."

Martin lifted a brow. With a quick motion, he snaked his hand into the bag, earning a sharp protest from Jon, before it returned with a randomly selected pack of marshmallows and fruit gummies.

Jon’s face only became more and more red, and Martin shook his head.

“Well, so much for the grocery budget.”

“In my defence, they were on sale.”

That forced a breathless chuckle out of Martin’s chest, and if he weren’t so sick, he would have kissed Jon’s pointy nose.

It was difficult to think about, sometimes, just how much he adored this man.

Dinner that night had been reheated pasta, and Martin was confident that, when he kept it all down with relative ease, that this fever was already on its way out.

That, unfortunately, wasn't the case.

At around midnight, he woke up to his dinner fighting its way up his esophagus, desperate to reintroduce itself. He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to swallow it back down.

It wasn’t enough.

Rolling out of bed, he stumbled towards the toilet, stubbing his toe on the dresser, which almost sent him to the floor.  _ Fuck. _

He made it to the toilet in time, though, closing the door and doubling over the bowl just as the first of the convulsions hit him. Wet, retching noises filled the room and when it was over, he was left trembling and weak, sucking in pained, gasping breaths.

There was a knock.

“Martin?”

Shit. He hadn’t meant to wake up Jon.

There was another knock. He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his sweaty face against his arms.

“Don’t come in.”

His muscles seized, and he straightened back over the bowl. His nose was dripping and his eyes watered. Disgusting. What a mess.

The door opened, and Martin whirled around.

“I said  _ don’t come in! _ ”

Jon flinched back, eyes wide, and Martin immediately regretted his vicious tone, but he was forced back over the bowl with another heave, his throat burning. He heard the door close, and he let out a deep, slow breath.

At least Jon didn’t have to see him like this. In what was shaping up to be the start of an incredibly miserable night, he still had that.

When it seemed that the last of the convulsions had passed and his entire dinner was staring up at him from the bottom of the bowl, he rose to shaky legs, flushing the toilet, and washed his face in the sink. He stared at his mottled face in the mirror, his eyes bloodshot. 

What a sight for sore eyes.

He opened the door, and Jon was sitting at the edge of the bed. He was wearing one of Martin’s old jumpers, looking entirely too small in it. Martin’s chest twisted up in painful knots.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“It’s fine. Would you … like me to get you something?”

“That’s okay,” Martin said as he rounded the bed, wiping the last of the water from his chin. “Sorry for waking you up. You can go back to sleep.” He laughed, although it was a faint sound. "I don't think there's anything left to come up."

Jon’s lips twisted, and he lifted his head.

“Is there any particular reason you’re so resistant to letting me help?”

Martin froze at the intensity of Jon's tone and the flash of anger in his eyes. Jon didn’t give him time to answer, though.

“There must be  _ some  _ reason, right? You won’t even allow me to heat up some bloody  _ soup _ . Do you not trust me or something?”

“What kind of question is that? Of  _ course  _ I trust you.”

“Then  _ why _ won’t you let me help you?”

“I don't need it. It’s not like I've got cancer or something. It's just a little fever." Jon's eyes continued to blaze and boil, though, and Martin shook his head, baffled. " _ Why _ are you making such a big deal out of it?”

“Why are  _ you  _ making such a big deal out of it? I  _ specifically _ asked you to let me know if you needed anything earlier, but you seemed to deliberately choose to ignore me.”

“Because I didn’t  _ need  _ anything—”

“Just  _ admit _ you’re being weird about this.”

“Okay, fine!" Martin threw out his hands. "You’re right. I'm not exactly comfortable when people try to take care of me. Okay? Does it make you feel better hearing me say that?"

Jon blinked, lips parted, but seeming unable to come up with a response. Martin sucked in a sharp breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look, if I ever got sick before, tough shit, because I couldn’t exactly afford to take a day off. I had my mother, I had school, and then I had the Institute. So, sorry for not being whiny and annoying or whatever it is you think I should be right now.”

“Martin—”

“Look, I’m just … really not in the mood for this tonight, okay? I’m pretty sure I just vomited up my entire intestinal tract.”

“Right.” Jon lowered his head. “Of course.”

Getting up from the bed, Jon walked to the doorway. He paused for a moment, turning back to Martin, but then hurried out, closing the door behind him.

With a frustrated grunt, Martin curled back up into his sweat-soaked sheets, eager for this terrible night to be over already.

Unfortunately, despite his wishes, sleep did not come easily to him. Or at all. Not just because his throat was still stinging and his stomach churning. He stared up at the ceiling, anger and something more fragile stewing in his belly.

Jon could be  _ so  _ …

He flipped onto his side, grinding his teeth together.

Martin knew how to take care of himself. Why was that such a  _ problem?  _ If Martin was capable of making his own food or changing the sheets, then he should do it, right? He'd never had anybody in his life that could step in for him if he couldn't, and his responsibilities had always been far more important than whether or not he was feeling okay.

Also, _ real _ hypocritical, Jon. Complaining that  _ Martin  _ was the one resistant to accepting help.

Martin remembered those days and weeks and months after discovering the tunnels and then preparing for the Unknowing. How Jon was being consumed by his own paranoia and fear, but would turn away every hand that Martin held out to him. Even when it was holding just a tiny cup of tea.

It had devastated Martin, watching him suffer like that, acting like he had to shoulder everything all on his own. It would have been so much easier if Jon had trusted him. If he could have finally understood he had someone who loved him, who could have eased his burden, who had only wanted to  _ help _ —

Ah.

Martin stared out the dark window.

Ah.

Martin watched sunlight creep into the room with sore, tired eyes. He had not gotten another wink of sleep that night. So, when he first heard footsteps, he sprung right up.

“Jon?” he called, softly.

The footsteps paused and then came closer until Jon appeared in the doorway.

“Um, hey.” Martin tugged at a loose string in the duvet. “Good morning.”

A furrow formed between Jon’s eyebrows, but he quietly returned the greetings anyway. A strange silence descended over the room as Martin agonized over what to say.

“Listen,” he started, finally. “I’m sorry for getting so angry last night.”

“Don’t be," Jon said, his shoulders sagging. "You weren’t feeling well. I shouldn't have pushed you."

“That doesn’t mean I get to shout."

“It's okay. You’re an adult. You can deal with getting sick in whatever way you think is best.”

No, Martin hadn’t felt like much of an adult at all last night. Or a very good boyfriend, for that matter. But he was trying to fix that.

Swallowing, he began, hesitantly,

“Actually, I was wondering if, uh," he could do this, he could  _ do this _ , "if you could bring me a cup of tea?" Then, he added quickly, "If that’s not too much trouble.”

Jon blinked, and Martin wondered if he needed to be more clear, but then he straightened, his eyes brightening.

“O-of course. What would you like? Chamomile or …?”

“Uh, I don't know. Jasmine sounds nice?”

Jon nodded before dashing down the hall. There were wild clattering noises in the kitchen, noises that shouldn’t have anything to do with the preparation of tea, and Martin wondered if he should start regretting this arrangement before it had even begun.

But then Jon came back into the room a few moments later, unscathed, with a cup of steaming tea cradled in his hands.

“Here you are,” he said, handing it over, and Martin had to physically swallow down the  _ Thanks, sorry, I’m sorry _ that hung heavy in his throat. Jon lingered at the edge of the bed, tugging at his fingertips. “Is there anything else I could get you?”

“No, um, not right now.”

Jon's eyes widened, imploring, but Martin reached out to gently touch his wrist.

“But I’ll let you know next time, okay?”

And Jon smiled, and it was small and grateful and tender, and Martin felt as if he had been sucker punched in the gut. 

Cooling his tea, Martin took a sip.

For some reason, he had the feeling that it tasted a little bit better than if he had made it himself.

Martin’s illness raged on for a good three days, ravaging him so badly that he just wanted to die already and, at some point, thought his wish had been granted.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Jon said,

“Congratulations.” He pulled the thermometer out of Martin’s mouth. “Your fever is finally broken.”

Martin groaned with relief, sinking into the pillow. At Jon's insistence, he had since been moved back to the master bedroom. The mattress in the spare room really was shite, after all. Jon hadn’t even bothered with it, taking up residence on the couch to ride out the quarantine.

“How’s your appetite?” Jon continued, wiping the thermometer with a cloth. “Want to finish off that minestrone soup?”

Martin consulted his stomach. His stomach said, In Your Dreams, Idiot. He shook his head.

Jon placed the cloth on the end table, just beside an empty cup of tea and his earmarked book. He glanced up at Martin, smiling shyly.

“I’ve really missed you.”

“I’ve been right here, silly.”

“You know what I mean.” Reaching over, he scooped up the book. “I see you’ve been working through Kinsey’s work.”

Martin bit back his groan, not wanting to hurt Jon’s feelings but overwhelmed by his hatred for the book. Jon seemed to see right through him, if his damnable smirk was anything to go by.

“I guess you aren’t taken with it.”

“ _ No _ , no, it’s just …” Martin’s mouth flapped about, before he gave up with a mournful sigh. “It’s the worst. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m fully aware Kinsey’s work can be a bit …”

“Boring—”

“Academic—”

They both paused, processing what the other had said, before descending into giggles. Martin recovered first, fighting down his ridiculous smile.

“I literally cannot fathom what you enjoy about it.”

“I just think it’s interesting.” Opening the book, Jon smoothed down the earmarked page. “Would you like it if I read it to you?”

Oh, hang on. That sounded like it could be fun, actually. Especially if Jon did it in that comically stuffy voice he used when he would read any of Dickens' stuff. And, besides, even if the book was truly unsalvageable, there were few things Martin loved doing more than drifting away to the sound of Jon’s voice.

Martin nodded, but then gave a shout of surprise when Jon hopped onto the bed.

“I still might be contagious, you idiot!”

“Oh.” Jon paused, then sheepishly plucked at the bedsheets. “Well, you know, we don’t know for sure if I can even get sick anymore. This could be a good opportunity to experiment with that.”

Exasperated, Martin shook his head.

Well, he supposed he knew where Jon was coming from. He had missed him, too, after all. So, if Jon was willing to risk becoming horrifically ill just to sneak in a cuddle, who was Martin to get in the way?

He gestured his agreement with a sharp jerk of his chin and Jon smiled, clambering fully onto the bed. Martin curled up into Jon’s side, resting his cheek on the sharp bone of his shoulder. He could smell the lavender detergent they had started using since they got here. Jon must have done the laundry.

With one hand, Jon opened to the page Martin had last left off, using his other hand to card through Martin's sweaty hair. A low sound rumbled deep in Martin's chest, and he allowed his eyes to slide shut.

He did the voice, like Martin hoped he would, but, rather regrettably, it did little to pique Martin's interest in what was actually being said. But as Jon rubbed his thumb in slow circles just under Martin's ear, he decided that that part wasn't all that important, not really.

It was every cup of tea, every tray of food brought to his bedside, every gentle brush to his head to check for his temperature ...

Martin curled up deeper into the softness of Jon's side. He knew what it all meant now. Knew what Jon wanted to say. He could only try to be the sort of person who deserved it. But based on the gentle glint in Jon's eyes as he glanced down at Martin, waiting for a reaction, a chuckle or a snort, Martin had the feeling that he could rest easy.

And so, he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Jon had a bad cold by the end of the week. Jon insisted he had caught it from Cynthia at the grocery store, but Martin Did Not Believe Him.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/).


End file.
